


from eden

by Fruityloo



Category: White Collar
Genre: Drug Use, Established Relationship, Implied - Elizabeth Burke/Peter Burke/Neal Caffrey, Implied/Referenced Past Drug Addiction, M/M, no sex under the influence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-30 05:28:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12647043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fruityloo/pseuds/Fruityloo
Summary: Faced with an old vice, Neal makes a choice and deals with the consequences.





	from eden

Jeremiah Ford stands a mere half-inch above Neal, but like any good businessman, Jay knows how to make himself seem larger. First four buttons of his top left undone, projecting an air of cool indifference. Neal's dressed much the same, having forgone suit jacket for the kind of thin cotton dress shirt one might find in the VIP lounge of the high-end club he supposedly owns. Jeremiah might not be the sort of businessman Neal's used to dealing with in any formal capacity -- drugs, not art -- but posturing is a language Neal knows well.

A small, innocuously clear bag sits between them on the table. "To our new partnership," Inside is a fine brown powder, the consistency somewhere between ground paprika and sugar. Neal's stomach twists in recognition, "I'd like to share a sample of what you can expect." Jay smiles, teeth like an eel, eyes just as alien.

Neal look between it and the supplies he spent the past half hour of negotiations praying wasn't meant for him. Needle and syringe, a silvered Zippo, an ace bandage he's pretty sure is supposed to be a tourniquet. Tools of a different trade. He toys with the lighter as if performing some kind of card trick. Buying time.

Nick Halden is a man who likes fine things: designer watches, designer suits, designer drugs, heroin especially. Nick knows what he wants, and is never afraid to say so. If he meant to refuse, he’d have done it the moment he made the contents of the bag for what they were. But Neal Caffrey hesitated, and Neal Caffrey has to see it through.

He flips the lighter shut with a smile, skin tight around his eyes. Maybe Peter would notice how the corners don’t sit quite right on his face. But Peter is in the van several blocks away. In the watch on his wrist, unable to stop anything, unable to even voice disapproval.

The watch face stares at him in disapproving mockery.

“Alright,” Nick says, not Neal, not him. He leans forward on the sofa, elbows on top of knees. It's plush, almost comfortable, and smells like clean linen.

Well, he’s shot up in worse places.

“Let’s have a good time, shall we?”

Upon closer inspection, Neal finds that the bag holds barely a stamp. Not much for a man with Jeremiah's kind of access; a mere grocery store sample, just a taste, not a hit. Nick is old hat with drugs, and heroin his trick of choice. There's barely enough to make him blink. But Neal possess only a fraction of Nick’s resilience, these days. It's more than enough to get him absolutely faded.

He moves on muscle memory. Wet the powder so it sticks. Hold spoon steady. Steady hand of a user that knows the worth of what he holds. Not the shaking fingers of a junkie. No firsthand experience there, not for Nick and not for Neal. But he’s good with a needle and used to help junkies shoot up when they we're too shaky to do it themselves. There’s a certain camaraderie when it comes to addiction. Like honor among thieves.

Jeremiah watches him carefully, legs crossed, perfectly content with a cigarette between his fingers. Not with scrutiny but with open-mouthed hunger, eyes gone dark with want. Neal is certain of the difference. His life depends on knowing the difference.

The mixture bubbles until sweet caramel brown. Brown sugar brown. Dirt brown. Never-wanted-to-see-this-shade-again brown. Syringe next. Neal barely has to think, the process all but muscle memory. Like making a lift he’s done a hundred times. He could do it in his sleep. Neal rolls his sleeve and tightens the tourniquet, just enough to make the cubital vein bulge a deep blue. Breath catches in the hollow of his throat. Mouth like cotton. He swallows.

“Nice vein,” Jeremiah says.

Only a decade of schooling his body stops Neal from hitching his shoulders.  Jay's eyes stay on the syringe, not him, but the intensity still sends pinpricks down his arm. Just as as well. Goosebumps give the impression of anticipation. Which Neal isn’t feeling. Not at all.

"I’m more of a smoker,” he shrugs, “Shooting up-- Now that’s a celebration.”

Jeremiah smiles.

The needle disappears into skin, smooth as silk. He loosens the tourniquet next and lets the strip of gauze fall to the floor.

Neal gasps.

It's no slow approach to bliss but a sudden drop into paradise. Almost as good as the first time he shot up. Behind his eyes, this sweet brown void called home, like sinking into Peter’s arms on a long day, like a perpetual afterglow cranked to infinity.

Heroin walks him again through mixing another hit, through rolling up Peter’s sleeve. Fabric bunches in the crook of his elbow the way only off-the-rack shirts do. But he doesn’t mind, not one bit, because the stretch of skin revealed is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Muscle jumps under his fingers. The tourniquet is hardly necessary; Neal's forearm is harder than Neal's, full of muscle, and the vein he wants jumps with every tiny flex. He ties it loose and kisses bare arm. Peter smiles.

The vision warps, no longer a POV shot up at Peter’s face but narrowed to his forearm. Dirty yellow light flashes on the needle slipping in. Slow drag.First thrust in romantic soft porn. Vision splits, half on the syringe, half on Peter’s face. Mouth parted, lips slack and bitten wet, eyes rolled back and half-lidded how they always do just before he cums.

In reality, Neal shifts, upholstery soft at his back, slacks tight. He’s hard. Heroin is like fucking, but better. He could sit in this moment for the rest of his life and be perfectly content. What he really wants is a fresh bag and a fresh needle and Peter’s arm.

Peter. Neal forces his eyes open. Effort pulls a whimper from his throat, but no one bats an eye, not even Jeremiah, who sits across from him, eyes shut. Hard to tell if he’s shot up or sober. Neal’s watch informs him that while he was busy riding the peak for all it was worth, an hour passed. Enough time for a man with Nick’s supposed tolerance to start coming down. He needs to leave.

When he stands the floor doesn’t tilt so much as sags beneath his feet. He jerks a hand out to catch himself, then sets about rolling down his sleeve, smoothing back hair, and focuses on smiling like a man content and not a man trying to summon a level of panic he knows he should be feeling, but isn’t.

“Hey dude,” one of the muscle grabs his arm. Neal had her name, at one point, some stupid mnemonic that would’ve made Peter roll his eyes, but it escapes him. Thinking straight is like trying to hear the click of a safe dial when there’s a party roaring just next door. But Neal doesn’t see why it’s much of a problem, really. He tugs back his arm; after two pulls with no give, she sighs and relents, brow drawn with concern. “You sober enough to go anywhere?”

No, he’s not, but Nick would be, he’s fairly sure.

“Don’t insult me,” he scoffs, and pulls a bill from his wallet. Neal's pretty sure he saw her selling earlier. “Bag of coke, for the come-down.” He’s never been much of a stimulants guy, except for espresso in the morning and, when he’s desperate, FBI coffee when he and Peter work late. Before that, it was cappuccino over floor plans. But it’s common practice to smooth the nauseating come-down with a pick-me-up, and coke wouldn’t tempt him. He could pass the bag over to Peter as evidence, too. Without reluctance.

He smiles at her -- Melissa, that’s her name. Melissa I’ll miss ya. A laugh bubbles in his throat and Neal holds onto it only by the edge of his teeth. “Thanks, Melissa,” he tucks the little baggie away and strolls out the front door looking far more sober than he felt.

Three blocks straight ahead. Turn right at the lamp post with the broken bulb. Left three streets later. Pray the van comes into view. He never planned on doing this while high out of his mind.

No one follows. Probably. Neal knows his eye for counter-surveillance isn’t in peak condition right now, but he’s suddenly boneless. That bus stop bench looks so comfortable. In this moment he’d be perfectly content to curl up beneath it and ride the rest of his high out in cool solitude, cheek pressed to concrete. But the watch -- Peter would find him. Making excuses wouldn’t be easy with his thoughts fragmenting and drifting like they are. Peter would see through him in a heartbeat.

Neal closes his last steps to the van, schooling his face into into an approximation of neutrality mere seconds before the door swings open and he’s pulled inside.

 

* * *

 

Neal saunters up to the van in his graceful, patent waltz of a walk. But there’s a half-measure break interrupting his rhythm. No one else notices. No one bats an eye. Diana catalogs the bag of cocaine Neal brought and Jones is still busy reviewing Neal’s wristwatch audio. But Peter notices. He notices everything about Neal, chief among them that which Neal wants to keep concealed. It’s not so much that Neal has a tel -- he’s too much of a con man for something like that, always in perfect control of his body, but during the chase, Peter developed something of a sixth sense specifically tailored toward speaking Neal-ese.

“Seems like my work here is done,” Neal flips his hat onto his head. Peter squints, but the gesture is smooth as always. Too smooth? He’s not seeing things. Neal is off. Somehow. “I’ll be strolling home now.”

“I’ll drive you,” Peter says, too quickly, but Jones still has his ear to the bug, and Diana examining Neal’s addition to their evidence pile.

Neal raises an eyebrow in his direction. Their eyes meet for a tense half-second before Peter relents and opens the door, “This isn’t the best neighborhood.” As if this totally normal gesture required explanation.

“Sure,” Neal shrugs and jumps onto the pavement. Stumbles. Peter parked two blocks back under a broken street lamp, just to be safe.

Half a block passes in silence. Neal keeps a steady one-two-three one-two-three one-two- _beat_. Peter grabs him by the forearm, and Neal doesn’t pull away. His chest falls unevenly; labored breath. How did he miss that? “Neal. What happened?”   

“Just-”

“Neal,” _Try and pull one over on me_ , is what Petter really says, using his Interrogation Voice tone, _I swear to god-_

“Heroin.”

“ _What_?”

Neal waves a hand like this is an everyday thing, like heroin is synonymous for wine, and any reaction to the contrary is patently ridiculous. “It’s fine, Peter! Just heroin. I’m fine. I’ve got- hey, what’s the statute of limitations on drug use?” he laughs, honest to god laughs, “Never paid much attention to that one.” Neal’s shoulders fall into their default position, but that sixth Neal-sense itches.

Peter looks at him.

“What? They got Al Capone on tax evasion,” He shrugs out of Peter’s hand and strolls forward. Stumbles again. Not drunk, or even clumsy, really. A hair’s breadth from languid.

“Agents have leeway for misdemeanors committed undercover.”

Neal’s smile broadens.

“Don’t get any ideas.” Peter helps Neal into the passenger seat. He’s quiet again, having alternated between chatty and distant on their short stroll to the car. Peter buckles himself in and drives.

A few short blocks from June’s, Peter asks, “You with us?”

“Mm.”

That would be a no.

“You knew what you were doing back there,” anything to keep Neal talking, keep him here in the car and not-- wherever he goes while staring out the window.

“Yeah,” he runs a hand down his face and nods, “Yeah, I-- dabbled.”

 _Dabbled_. That's possibly the worst lie Neal has ever told. "This isn’t the sort of thing you just _dabble_ in. You know that.”

Silence stretches between them. Neal stares out the passenger window, stares so long and so far that Peter’s already running through ways to bring this up in the morning, when Neal is sober.

But then Neal turns to face him, pupils narrowed to fine pinpoints, still with the impression of wide-eyed something. Awe. Innocence. Fear. “I’m not proud of it."

Stoplight orange catches on the bob of Neal's adam's apple.

Not proud of it. Not like the cons, or the forgeries Neal risked discovery to sign. Firsthand, Peter’s watched flush of Neal’s grin while forging a pigeon’s blood ruby, when listing off every imperfection on a false ID with a smile. Pride. He’s plenty of pride. But this -- the flick of Neal’s eyes, the way he swallows to stall for time. This is true. He’s ashamed.

Neal stares at him like the whole world hinged on Peter’s reaction.

“Okay,” Peter lifts his right hand from the steering wheel and rests it on Neal’s knee. Not much of a reaction. “Let’s get you home.”

They lapse into a silence filled only by the even rhythm of Neal’s breath. He seems strangely at peace like this, like the cogs behind his eyes have slowed to the pace of a normal man. Peter glances over at every red light, just to catch a glimpse of Neal as a normal man.

When they reach June's, Peter helps him to bed. He fills a glass of water for his nightstand; when he turns back to the bed, Neal is making slow work of his shirt buttons. 

“I’ll do it,” Peter grumbles, fingers already replacing Neal’s, who says nothing. Idle hands drop down onto the bed. 

“Thanks.” In this moment, Neal is dry leaves across pavement, a ship unmoored, at the mercy of something not quite in his control, and not minding one damn bit. Peter slips the shirt from his shoulders and presses a kiss to his forehead, flushed and damp with sweat.

“Don’t mention it,” he folds Neal’s shirt over the couch and goes digging for pajamas.

“And don’t bother,” then, as if Neal always explains himself to Peter, he continues, “In a couple hours I’m going to wake up and my stomach is going to try and make a violent exit stage left,” and a shirt would only get in the way, Neal doesn’t say. Peter closes the bottom drawer and stands, “I’m not looking forward to it. Could you-”

Could you give me tomorrow off? Could you go down to the corner store and buy me some antacid? But there's one thing Peter knows Neal would never think to ask for. “I’m staying.”

“Peter-”

“I’m not leaving you while you’re high! That’s insane, Neal.”

“I dunno, I feel pretty good right now.

Peter looks at him pointedly.

Neal sighs and falls back onto the bed.

“Is that you giving up?”

“When you’re after something, you tend to get it-- I think I know that by now," he holds up his arms to the ceiling. "Just come hold me. 

Darkness makes Neal seem smaller than he is, but there's no such thing as  _true_ darkness in New York city. Neal's his smile is obvious, if not a little dopey, a little faded.

“Making deals already?”

Neal laughs. He looks good like this. Breath a little heavy, eyes a little glassy, expression teetering on the edge of bliss. Like the come-down of an afterglow. But any flame stirred goes cold when Peter’s eyes catch on the needlepoint bruise in the crook of Neal’s elbow, just a spot of shadow darker than the rest. Peter strips to his boxers and crawls into bed, pulling the blankets over them as they slot together comfortably, effortlessly.

“I should call El,” Peter says. Neal’s hair tickles his nose.

“Probably,” Neal agrees, and then, softer, leaning into him “Do you have to?”

“I can text her.”

Neal nods and Peter reaches for his jeans.

_Staying at Neal’s._

Her response is instantaneous, despite the late hour. _Everything okay?_

Well, that’s a loaded question. _Neal not feeling well. Keeping an eye on him._

_Should I come over?_

“Do you want El over?”

Neal swallows and shakes his head.

 _We’re fine_ , Peter texts, though he’s not quite sure if that’s the truth.

 _Give him my love, hon_.

“El says she loves you.”

“Love her too.”

Peter sets his phone on the nightstand.

“Why don’t you want Elizabeth over?” Between the two of them, she’s better at comforting. Always knows what to say. All Peter has is protocol and an Interrogation Voice and hands that never know where to rest. Elizabeth has softness and quick wit and way with words.

Neal says nothing. For a long moment, Peter thinks he may have drifted off, but then comes a sharp intake of breath. He says, “I’m not that kind of-” a huff, frustration in the line of Neal’s shoulders against Peter’s chest, “I know there are a lot of me out there. Aliases. But I’m not… not this kind of man anymore.”

Anymore. Past tense. Implication: He used to be.

_I’m not proud of it._

“And you don’t want her to know,” he intuits.

Neal nods.

“Oh, Neal. She wouldn’t think less of you,” Peter tightens his arms, “Neither do I. We love you.”

“I know.” Neal presses back into him, the curve of his back slotting perfectly against the plane of Peter’s chest.  “But I will.”

“It has to go in my report, you know.”  

Neal goes slightly rigid. They really shouldn’t have this conversation in bed. Neal should really have this conversation sober. “Please.”

“What if they ask for a tox screen? They find find heroin, but I didn’t put this in my report, and you know how that will look. You’ll go back to prison. I can’t lie about this.”

Silence. Neal digs into Peter’s arms, his body defined by all rigid angles, all tension.

“Look, I’ll-- only I need to see the report. Me and Hughes. No one else.” Please, Neal. I love you. I can’t lie for you.

Neal rolls to face him, and it might be the lighting, but his eyes seem sharper, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I don’t like it, but-” he cuts himself off, or maybe he’s just lost, wandering. Neal rests his head in the crook of Peter’s neck. They fit together perfectly, knees slotting against bare legs. Peter holds him just a little tighter, “It’s okay.”

Peter spends the night in and out of consciousness. Drifting too far shows him Neal, Neal with bare arms, Jeremiah with a needle and grin and wandering hands. Peter curls closer to Neal’s side of the bed, arms tightening on-- nothing.

“Neal?” No answer. Peter swings his legs to the floor and calls again, louder, “Neal?”

“In he-” A painful retch cuts Neal off. Light spills from the bathroom, door left haphazardly ajar.

“Oh my god, Neal. Are you alright?”

Neal squints up from where he kneels in front of the toilet, arms gripping its sides, “Hey there.” Is that supposed to sound charming? Neal opens his mouth again, but all he does is turn to the toilet and retch again. Nothing comes up. How long as Neal been in here throwing up? Peter drops to his knees beside him, palm rubbing slow circles on Neal’s sweat-damp back and smooths back hair with the other.

Between pants, Neal smiles thinly and says, “Always hated this part.”

Before Peter respond, Nel wretches again. Peter resolves to say nothing. There’s nothing to say. There’s only his hand soft on Neal’s back, his quiet company. Don’t think about how Neal didn’t even try to wake him. Who wanted to go through this alone? Get high alone, throw up alone, wake up alone.

 

* * *

 

Morning breaks behind his eyes. Neal doesn’t want to open them; behind his lids is a void, a dry and scratchy whisper. If he just keeps his eyes shut, he could drift for hours, waste away the morning all alone, until the itch started, and then--

Then Peter rolls over in his sleep. Neal flinches, eyes flying open, suddenly terrified to close them. That voice itches at his ear. When his eyes close, it’s louder. He needs-- needs to drown it out. Needs Peter.

He doesn’t kiss Peter’s neck so much as drags his mouth over bare skin, open-mouthed and so, so desperate. Beneath his lips Peter’s pulse grows wild and sweet; he grabs his arm, no pressure, just enough to show he’s awake. Gentle, so gentle.

“Didn’t know you were up,” Neal mumbles, lips dragging over stubble. He straddles Peter’s hips and stares down at him, his bare arm and the warm blue vein. He bites down on a groan. “Let’s fuck,” hips roll, clumsy, friction in all the wrong places. Heroin whispers, _show him, show him, show him-_ “Please?” before he fades away again. It itches in the back of his skull.

When things first got bad enough to quit, Neal threw himself into work whenever cravings turned his bones to needles. The next forgery, the next con, anything to keep him moving. Long cons were best. Plenty to focus on. If he stopped, even for a moment, the sweet brown voice rose above the noise to call him back. His chase with Peter was the best distraction, and even in prison, the voice stayed quiet. Long before Peter saved him, Peter saved him. Always Peter.

Then last night: a burst of electricity to the whisper’s sluggish heart. Now it screams in his ear. Screams, _you could get a bag so easy you could get a bag and share you could show him-_

“Neal?” his hand trails down Neal’s side, probably supposed to be a comfort, a warm caress, but it burns, “You’re not sober. We’re not having sex.”

Laughter shakes him, trapped somewhere in the space between Neal’s ribs. God, he’s so sober. That’s the problem. “Peter,” he sits up straight to look him in the eye, even though it breaks their skin-to-skin and makes him shudder with morning chill. “I got sober at exactly 3am while bent over in the bathroom.” Matter-of-fact. It's commonplace to him, but the way Peter's eyes go wide and brow turns down and worry- Oh, right, it's not normal to throw up nightly, is it?

Heroin always makes a fast, violent exit. The kind of whirlwind lovers’ quarrel that leaves you wanting a violent meeting of the flesh. That makes you want to fuck and tear with teeth.

Peter squeezes a shudder from Neal’s hip, firm fingers like an anchor. Back in his body. _Squeeze harder_ , Neal almost says. Peter speaks up first, “But you’re shaking.”

“Just craving."

His fingers stutter, almost retract, but Neal grabs him by the wrist and pulls it to his chest. Skin shiny with last night’s sweat. He’s so far from giving a damn. Peter takes a breath, eyes intense, and whatever he’s about to say, Neal wants none of it.

“You know heroin’s just like fucking? One thrust in and,” a shudder, thoughts skipping, sticking on the needle, the slow press into flesh, “It’s good, Peter.” He cracks on the _-er_ , raw in the kind of way a con man never should be.

Peter’s about to launch into that speech, Neal can see it in the worried hollow of his throat. He dips his head down to kiss it the speech away, open lips and then teeth, worrying his own mark instead. “Neal-”

“But making love is better,” he says against the skin.You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Remind me that it’s true.

“You really want this?” Peter’s palm, flat on Neal’s chest, curls.

“ _Please_.” I need it.

Wheels turn behind Peter’s eyes. He swallows. Neal bites his lip to stop from begging.

“Okay,” he says at last, and cups the back of Neal’s head. “If it’s what you need. I love you, Neal.”

He leans up Tongue slips into open mouth, over blunt teeth, biting just for the jolt of sensation, not quite paint. Not even morning breath slows the sudden rush of wildfire in his skin.

Peter rolls his hips up to meet Neal’s; quickly, a tease, or a maybe a test, Neal isn’t sure. He groans anyway, and Peter swallows it whole. Peter could swallow all of him and Neal would go happily.

“Thank you,” he breathes, and rolls off when Peter reaches to the nightstand. Condoms and lube, Neal hopes. He yanks off his boxers and flings them to the floor, desperate to be naked, for Peter to touch.

Peter’s breath catches. “You’re beautiful- you know that?”

Sap. Neal grins anyway, licks his lips for show. “So’re you,” he adjusts the pillow beneath his head for better neck support, already spreading his legs, “With that look in your eye.”

Peter laughs and uncaps the lubricant, “What look? This is my normal look.”

Neal can’t hear heroin itching over his own violent pulse, so he answers, grinning, “When you want something, you get this-” Peter’s finger catches on his rim. It stings; the sort of drag that keeps him sold in his body, not drifting. He takes a breath and holds it, then releases in a rush. Peter’s finger goes in easy - not enough, but it’s something, finally. When Neal speaks again his voice hits a higher note, “This fire, like you would--” a gasp, “would move mountains to get what you want.” When Peter caught him, he used Neal’s desire. Because Peter knows desire, the way want burns too hot and too cold all at once.

Sting turns to ache turns to fire. “Another?” Neal nods. Peter smiles down at him, crows feet wrinkling with last vestiges of concern, but in their center lay that same, breath-taking fire.

Sometimes they fuck and talk straight up to climax. Neal talks, mostly. Not one to keep opinions to himself, what’s good and what’s bad, what’s not working, what’s _oh god working right there._ Today, they’re quiet. Peter draws his mouth shut in concentration; Neal gasps, moans, all but beyond words.

Peter crooks his finger. Neal jerks, legs scrambling until his toes curl. “Ready?”

“ _Peter_ .” The bed creaks as Neal throws his head back and laughs, even as he’s so hard he swears a breeze could set him off. “Yes!” This is better than heroin. Even if half his body itches, the rest of him is here, with Peter. “ _Yes_ , I’m ready.”

Before he can groan at the loss of fingers, Peter slides in. Slow, smooth, “Fuck,” he pants, head rolling to the side, only to roll back, so he can see Peter when he bottoms out. Eyes roll back, mouth drops open and sweat rolls down his back. They breathe in sync. Peter waits for Neal to catch his breath and adjust. His pulse beats wildly. Below it, the itch, still, barely there, but he wants it gone. “ _Deeper._ ”

Peter grabs his ankles and pushes back. Slow. Muscles protest, protest, then _give_. The whole of Peter’s weight bears down on him. He sobs, unable to think of anything but this, of Peter.

And this is not like heroin. Each thrust sends an echo through the rest of him. Thighs tense and stomach jumps and a shudder rips up his spine. Sweat rolls down Neal’s neck, plasters Peter’s hair to his forehead, flushed beautiful and bright.

Neal’s not sure who comes first, only that it happens all at once, with Peter's mouth on his. Neal's hand in his hair, clutching him close.

They collapse in unison. Yellow dawn casts the walls in blissful silence.

“Better?” Peter asks, hand finding his.

His mind is quiet. Neal hears only the soft lull of Peter’s breath, and wants for nothing else. “Yeah,” he threads their fingers together, “Better.”


End file.
